LEAH POV
The sound comes again.
From below us.
It's a deep, echoing vibration that shakes the soles of my shoes and travels straight into my bones. I freeze.
"Damian," I whisper. "That didn't sound good."
"No," he agrees quietly. "It didn't."
The elevator leans a little more—slow and careful—like it's deciding whether we're worth keeping alive. Metal cracks above us, and dust drifts down in lazy spirals, catching in the faint red emergency light.
I press my back harder against the wall. I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
"How much longer can this thing hold?" I ask.
He doesn't answer immediately.
That silence terrifies me more than any noise.
"Damian."
He breathes out slowly. "I don't know."
The honesty hits like a slap.
I nod, forcing myself to stay calm. Panic won't help. Panic never helps. I've learned that the hard way.
My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt again. I don't even think about it anymore. Touching him now feels instinctive—necessary.
"You're shaking," he says.
"I am not."
"You are," he replies gently. "Just a little."
I huff out a breath. "Fine. Maybe. But I'm holding it together."
"You are," he agrees. "Better than most people would."
I glance up at him. "You sound like you've seen most people panic."
"I have."
Something in his tone makes me study his face more closely. Even in the dim light, I can see the tension carved into his features—the way his jaw tightens when another creak echoes above us, the way his eyes keep flicking upward, calculating, assessing.
"You really are used to danger," I whisper.
He doesn't deny it.
The elevator shakes again—sharper this time—and I stumble forward.
Damian catches me instantly, his arms locking around me, pulling me flush against him. My face presses into his chest, my hands flattening there.
Heat.
Solid muscle.
The clean, subtle scent of his cologne mixes with something darker—adrenaline, maybe.
For a moment, my fear dissolves into awareness.
This is too intimate. Too fast.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, even though I don't pull away.
"Stop apologizing," he says quietly. "You're allowed to exist."
The words steal my breath.
I pull back just enough to look at him. "You say things like that like you mean them."
"I do."
The elevator shakes again—long and drawn out, like a warning.
I swallow. "If this is it," I say softly, "I don't want to spend it pretending."
His gaze sharpens. "Pretending what?"
"That I'm not scared. Or that I don't care."
He studies me for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his eyes.
"You care," he says.
"Yes."
"About what?"
"About you."
The fact that I admit it hangs between us—fragile and dangerous.
He doesn't flinch.
"That's… unwise," he says quietly.
"I know."
"Then why say it?"
"Because," I say, my voice trembling despite myself, "if this elevator drops, I don't want my last thoughts to be lies."
The silence stretches. The emergency light flickers.
Then steadies.
Damian steps closer—just a fraction—but the movement feels seismic in the small space.
"You don't know me," he says.
"I know how you hold me when things go wrong," I reply. "I know you haven't let go once."
His jaw tightens.
"That doesn't make me safe."
"No," I agree. "But it makes you human."
Something in him cracks.
Not loudly. Not all at once.
But I see it.
He lifts a hand slowly, hesitant, then rests it against my cheek. His thumb brushes my skin with a tenderness that doesn't match the danger surrounding us.
"You shouldn't trust me," he whispers.
I lean into his touch without thinking. "Neither should you."
The elevator creaks again—louder, closer.
The sound snaps something fragile between us.
Damian drops his hand suddenly, stepping back like he's burned himself.
"We need to focus," he says sharply. "This isn't the time."
I nod, even though the disappointment hurts.
"Okay," I say. "Tell me what to do."
He looks at me then—really looks—like he's memorizing my face.
"If it drops again," he says, "brace against me. Don't fight it."
"That sounds like the opposite of reassuring."
"It's physics," he replies. "Not poetry."
I manage a weak smile. "Shame. I like poetry."
His lips twitch despite himself.
Another vibration ripples through the floor.
My heart struggles to find steady ground.
"Damian," I whisper, "promise me something."
He pauses. "I don't make promises lightly."
"I know. That's why I'm asking."
"What?"
"If we survive this," I say, forcing the words out, "don't disappear."
His expression darkens.
"You don't know what you're asking."
"I know exactly what I'm asking," I say. "I'm asking you not to pretend this didn't matter."
He opens his mouth to respond—
And the elevator drops.
Not an inch.
Not a slip.
A real, sickening fall.
I scream as gravity vanishes, my stomach lurching into my throat.
Damian yanks me hard against him, wrapping his arms around me as the elevator plunges, metal screaming, air rushing around us.
My nails dig into his back.
His body shields mine instinctively.
Then—
BAM.
The elevator slams to a stop with bone-crushing force.
Pain explodes through my knees as we hit the floor. Damian grunts, curling around me protectively, taking the brunt of it.
The emergency light shatters.
Darkness swallows us whole.
DAMIAN POV
The impact knocks the breath from my lungs.
Pain flares across my shoulder and ribs, but I don't let go of her. I refuse to.
"Leah," I rasp. "Leah, talk to me."
"I'm—" Her voice shakes. "I'm here."
Relief floods me.
I shift carefully, testing my body. My arm aches but moves. My legs respond.
We're alive.
For now.
The elevator creaks ominously, settling into a new, terrifying stillness.
"Don't move yet," I say. "We need to check injuries."
"My knees hurt," she admits softly. "But I think they're okay."
I breathe out. "Good."
Her fingers brush my face in the dark, tentative.
"Are you hurt?" she asks.
"Nothing I can't handle."
She scoffs weakly. "That's not an answer."
I hesitate, then admit, "My shoulder took most of it."
She goes very still.
"Let me see," she says.
"You can't see anything."
"I can feel," she replies.
Before I can stop her, she shifts carefully, her hands pressing gently along my shoulder. Her touch is reverent, intimate.
It steals my breath more than the pain.
"You're tense," she whispers.
"Occupational hazard."
She snorts softly, then grows serious again.
"You protected me," she says.
"That was instinct."
"It still counts."
The elevator shakes again—lower now, exhausted.
I lean my head back against the wall, forcing myself to think.
We're lower than before. Possibly lodged between floors. Structural integrity could already be compromised.
"This was the big drop," I say quietly.
She stiffens. "Big… as in the worst?"
"No," I admit. "As in the warning."
Her breath catches.
"But," I add, "it also means someone will notice now."
She presses closer, her forehead resting against my chest.
"Stay," she whispers.
"I'm not going anywhere."
She's quiet for a moment.
Then softly, "I meant… stay after."
The words cut deep.
I close my eyes.
I shouldn't want this. I shouldn't allow it.
But I do.
"Leah," I say carefully, "if you knew who I really was—"
The elevator creaks sharply, metal screaming as something shifts again.
She grips my shirt, fear surging back. "What?" she breathes.
I swallow the rest of the sentence.
"Nothing," I say instead. "We need to be ready."
"For what?"
"For anything."
The floor tilts slightly beneath us.
Every instinct in me is screaming.
This elevator isn't finished yet.
And neither is whatever put us here.